Cromwell halted the troop outside the gatehouse of Holyfen rectory. Edmund dismounted. “I won’t be long,” he said.

A sullen sky, a cold wind from the east, the earth washed in gray and damp. Soon it would be colder. Soon the Fens would freeze. And the men would don skates made of bone and race from Holyfen to Ely, Holyfen to St Ives, and back again. Father loved the races. Edmund loved that Father loved them. Specks on the horizon gathering mass and becoming men, churning arms and legs and ruddy faces venting steam and whisking across the finish. Casks of ale, joints on the spits, Father tall before the villagers in his general’s armor and his cloak trimmed with fur, clapping shoulders and bestowing prices, shouting how proud he was of the men of Holyfen – and winking at Edmund, saying, One day, this will be yours to do. Edmund’s joy and pride swelling his heart to the point of bursting. The land wreathed in white; a pure cold that gave vigor to blood: a different world from this grimness of fading autumn. Edmund was glad for his armor, the boiled leather of his buff-coat: they broke the wind, contained the chill.

The gate was broken: dangling from its hinges, held by timber buttresses, weathered rope. Edmund entered through the postern. The passageway smelled of urine. It opened to a yard of dirt and yellowed, dying grass. Dog droppings piled in a corner. The refectory’s roof collapsed, the windows broken. A coach, hobbled on a broken wheel, faded Holyfen arms barely visible on the door, a drowned man going under for the last time. He’d ridden in that coach as a child, the long ride from Huntingdon: Father bouncing him on his knee, pointing places in the landscape where Hereward the Wake and the Holyfens battled the Normans, where Black Shuck and the ghosts of Arthur's knights roamed.

Father was in the porch of the church, in his sedan-chair. His dogs, chained to a stake, looked up wearily and returned to their uneasy, hungry dreams. His legs were wrapped in a blanket; only his feet, wrapped in fraying wool, were visible. His worn doublet looked clean, other than the wine-stains Anne could not scrub out. On a rickety table were two bottles and a pewter cup and a plate with crusts of bread. Books scattered at his feet: the Book of Common Prayer, bound copies of the Swedish Intelligencer, Raliegh’s History of the World.

Edmund knelt. He did not smell urine. It was four years ago, Anne said, that he lost the ability to control his bladder. He could yet control the other, but just barely, and needed assistance from his chair to the toilet. He would shout and scream, Anne said, it carrying to the village green; and weeping, all the while, at the disgust and the indignity of it all.

Edmund felt a poisoned burst of hate toward those who’d reduced his father to this low place.

He knelt. He cleared his throat.

“Father?” He shook him, gently. The shoulder nothing but bone, and brittle, like dried branches, unfired clay. “Father.”

The old man opened his eyes. Red-rimmed, pale, watery – he stared at Edmund uncomprehending. The old flesh stretched tight across nose, cheekbones – he looked a helpless little bird.

“Father,” Edmund said. “I’m leaving. I’m going now. To the wars. But I’ll be back soon, to see you.”

“I – I don’t . . . I don't understand, who . . ." His father began to cry.

Edmund’s stomach twisted into a knot of self-loathing rage. He held his father’s hand, squeezed it gently.

“Don’t be afraid, Father,” he said. “Please don’t. I’ll be back, and I’ll . . .”

“I am so proud of you, my boy,” his father said. He tried to lean forward, couldn’t manage it; fell back, gasping. “My darling boy, I am . . .” He closed his eyes, tears welling. “Drunk . . . they were drunk, all of them, drunk an Puntel . . . Cecil let them drink and the Spanish put them to the sword . . . My God, the dead and diseased we threw from the ships . . ."

“Well. At least this time, you took proper leave.”

Edmund stood. Thomas, the youngest brother. Florid, going to fat, his long hair stringy but his armor clean. A sword and whetstone in one hand, a cup in the other.

“You and Cromwell,” Thomas said. “Off to discharge your pistols into bodies of men that may include the King?”

Edmund said nothing. Then he nodded.

“I may be among them too,” Thomas said.

“So I understand

“Your spies in the village?”

“It’s no secret you’ve declared for the King. Who will care for father?”

Thomas drank. He smiled dangerously.

“Well Edmund, perhaps you should. Perhaps it’s now your turn.”

Edmund took a breath. “Thomas ,”he said carefully. “I am sorry. . .”

Thomas waved him silent. “Stop. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Lowborn of me to fling it in your face."

"You once said -- you wrote me this -- that it broke his heart when I left."

"And so it did. But children leave, Edmund. And if I had wanted to leave, I would have done. Anytime over the past twelve years. As I watched his walk became a limp. A hobble. A crawl, were it not for canes and crutches. I’ve done what I could. Cushion his collapse. Fetch his wine and drink with him. Cadiz again, eh?” He tousled Father’s thinning hair. “I’ve heard Cadiz daily, sometimes twice, for those twelve years. And here I go, to fight for its author of that bloody debacle."

“You don't have to,” Edmund said.

"No, I don't," Thomas said. "But I will. Because he is the King. I don't care for the bishops and I despise the Frenchmen and the Papists. But he is our King, and we've eaten his bread . . ." Thomas shrugged. “Perhaps it would have been different for Father, if he didn’t hate cats the way he did. D’you know? Sometimes I think that’s what did for him.”

“Cats? I don’t . . .”

“You don’t remember? Maybe you weren’t there, or forgot. Ask Sydney, should you see him.” He took another drink. “Anne will take care of him. As you and I fight one another.”

“Yes,” Edmund said.

“Well then . . .” Thomas sighed. He looked into the distance. Then he looked at Edmund, his eyes sad. “I must be true to the cause I serve, and you to yours. We’ve both our parts to play in this tragedy, Edmund. Let us do it in the way of honor, and without personal hatred. I’ll never relinquish the title of your brother.”

“Nor I yours, Thomas,” Edmund said.

They shook hands. Thomas turned and entered the church, closing the door gently behind him.

Father was asleep again. Edmund bowed his head. He prayed. He prayed for his father’s health, prayed for Thomas, prayed that England would be delivered from war. Then he bent and kissed his father’s forehead. The old man muttered something, and faintly, briefly, Edmund smelled the man, the great man, his hero, that told him of war when they rode in the carriage, who gave prizes to skaters and praised the courage of the Holyfen men.

He wiped his eyes and turned toward the gate.

"Mr Edmund."

He turned. It was Anne.

She approached him. She wore no bonnet, her long hair teased by the wind. She smiled.

"No goodbye for me?"

"No -- that is, yes. . . "

"I’ll take grand care of him," she said. "Please know that. He’ll be happy, as much as he can."

"Thank you," he said. "And please, write me. The villagers will know where the troop shall be. And if there is anything, anything . . ."

"Mr Edmund, there is one . . . a letter from your brother. In London. He . . . he means to. . ."

Edmund took the letter she offered to him. "Miss Sparrow," it read. "This is to advise you, that due to a temporary problem of Liquidity, it has become unfortunately necessary to temporarily reduce the monthly Payment to the household of Sir George Holyfen. I recommend, then, careful Economy; always a good Discipline, until that time (soon, I pray) that the Annuity can be restored . . ."

Edmund looked up. She was crying.

"That bastard," Edmund said. "That damned bastard."

"I can manage, Mr Edmund. But I am alone here now, with Sir Thomas gone . . ."

"I will help you,” he said. "I will send money when I can, when I have it to send. I won't let you starve or suffer, I promise."

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you."

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. First on the cheek. Then she took his head in both hands and pulled him close and kissed him hard. He felt her teeth behind her lips. He tasted her tears.

She broke, and hurried away.

Edmund stood motionless, watching her. Then he turned and walked out of the yard and through the gate.

Cromwell glanced up from a paper he was reading, returned to it. Then he looked up and watched Edmund closely as he mounted.

“Good news, Lieutenant?" he said.

"All will be well with Father," he said. "God will guard him."

Cromwell said nothing. He spurred. Edmund followed. And the sixty troopers after them: down Cedric Street through Holyfen village, the green and the church and the Two Cats, past the homes and the loomworks, a massive lock on its door; descending the slope, past the eel-ponds and the lake and through the meadows, west toward the army of the Earl of Essex.

"Did you see this?" Cromwell said. He handed Edmund a copy of Anglia Rediviva. FIGHT NEAR WORCESTER. RETREAT, RETREAT! the headline shouted.

Edmund read. He raised his brows.

"After the pell-mell retreat down the lane, a section of Parliament's horse, under the command of Colonel Brown, held Powick Bridge briefly against Rupert. This allowed the main body of the Parliamentarians to hasten unchecked across the Severn; after which they galloped a further nine miles to Pershore. There they met the Lifeguard of Essex, and, convinced that Rupert's fiery cavalry was hot on their harnesses, they scurried in one disorganized, terrified mob a further distance to the sanctuary of Essex' main army.

Worcester surrendered to Essex the next day; still, the plate of Oxford escaped and is in the hands of King Charles. The mood in his camp is jubilant. That of Parliament is best described as tremulous."

"Well," Edmund said.

"Yes we will, Captain," Edmund said. He put the paper in a saddlebag. Anne's kiss burned in his head and heart.